


Richie Tozier’s Nightmare

by QuinsQuins



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), Angst, Ben is the sweetest boy, Character Death, Deadlights(IT), Gore, Hurt Richie Tozier, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Kinda, Mike and Ben, Multi, Murder, Nightmares, Poor Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier Angst, Richie Tozier Whump, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Sick Richie Tozier, Soft Stanley Uris, This was rushed, Vomit, abusive relationship(mentioned and implied), all the losers need a hug, and so it stan, bad imagery, descriptions of violence, implied poly losers, lots of death, most are food related, protective losers, richie is Baby, sorry - Freeform, they all baby, they all love each other, this took three days, this was finished and posted at 12.01 yesterday I am tired, weird deaths, weird metaphors and similes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-25 13:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinsQuins/pseuds/QuinsQuins
Summary: Title basically says it all, but after the losers defeat Pennywise, Richie has a nightmare.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom & Richie Tozier, Ben Hanscom & Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Beverly Marsh & Bill Denbrough, Bill Denbrough & Eddie Kaspbrak & Beverly Marsh, Mike Hanlon & Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Mike Hanlon & Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Eddie Kasprak, Stanley Uris & Ben Hanscom, the losers club/the losers club
Comments: 5
Kudos: 131





	Richie Tozier’s Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Okay okay, I’m sorry, I’ve spent more time writing this than I have been on Richie Tozier fucking dies but...I thigh this was a nice...long shirt to write...helped me get back in the groove with some fucked go horror writing! 
> 
> Well, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I apologize for the bad writing and spelling mistakes!!!

In the Deadlights, Richie saw more than just the future...

He saw chaos. Fire. Hell. Organs tied in knots, dripping with blood, to form a rope that could wrap the earth twice before being tied into a nice, little bow. Sharp teeth belonging to dog humanoids that could cut the eyes of every person who saw them with a simple smirk. Cannibal’s with lush lips stained a dark brown-red, saliva dripping from their corners to the slaughtered corpse of a woman with light brown, middle-parted hair and, forever glassy, dark blue eyes. A boy who lured many women and men to their deaths with his pitiful cries of ‘mommy! Mommy! I want my mommy!’ in an alleyway full of rotten smelling trash bags and a broken security camera. A simple hand knife tucked into the sleeve of his yellow rain jacket.

Murder. Drugs. Rape. Bombings. Fraud. War.

He saw it all. He felt it all. Every burn, scratch, bite, punch or ‘pleasure’ ghosted over his hairy, white chocolate chip cookie skin like hot water. Immersing him in a Medusa turned to stone state of being able to hear, and feel, but eyes layered with the common, innocent rock that he walked over every day.  
His fingers could twitch and nostrils could flare. His compressed lungs could help pump blood into a dying heart. Toes could scrunch and neck pop with the slightest move. He could move, but he could not force himself to chip away at the cement caked into the creases of his joints for him to even take a step forward.

He was frozen.

Forced to watch the back of his eyelids for, what felt like eternity, hours and cringe at the way his spine shivered at every unseen caress of a gloved hand. Muscles tense as he awaited the unknown, he knew there would be a pain.

Richie wishes it never comes. That it’s all just a dream. That he's’ just cracked out of his mind and on the edge of an overdose. He longs for the feel of white foam dripping at the corner of his lips, the flash of an ambulance, the sick, lemony smell of a hospital. Something common. Normal.

A memory.

But the pain always comes, and he feels shame in it. A section of his mind, the piece he abandoned just hours ago succeeding killing his childhood bully, tells him he deserves it. All of it. The distrust, the invasion, the apprehension. It’s his punishment for everything he’s done- the jokes, being in love with a man...murder...

They whisper it into his ears. ‘You deserve it, fag, you deserve it, you killed my son, you deserve it, stop calling me Eds!’.

Sometimes, the voices sound familiar.

‘Beep beep, Richie!’

‘Florida! Florida! Florida!’

‘G-Georgie, he's g-gone, Georgie!’

‘That’s a first...’

‘That cost three bucks! Please be careful with that, please.’

‘Do what you always do! Start talking!’

They give him headaches.

shortly... People start to emerge from the endless black of his hell. He can't remember sending out any invitations welcoming them to Richie’s ‘all-dead rock show!’- but he doesn’t protest.

A man with birdie, thin arms tips toes around him. The light cardigan he wears flutters behind him like a cape. Weightless and full of grace and mystery.

‘Stan.’ Richie thinks.

He stops before Richie in a sudden jolt, as if he just walked into an invisible wall, and spins on his toes. Full body facing him like a fleshy statue.  
Stan has his head shaved, left with just the slightest ounce of dark brown peach fuzz, and the seldom smile he used to wear when they, the losers, would all bicker at the quarry, is fully displayed on his round, baby-soft cheeks.  
He stares at Richie with artificial happiness. Eyes glassy and shinning with the outline of a light that isn’t there.  
Richie checks over his shoulder, black, he turns back.

Oh! magic, oh magic, what of your mysterious ways?

Stan’s holding a bench plane, something used to mainly smooth the surface of wood, and the paper-thin white button-up he wears, under the cardigan, suddenly rips down the middle of his back. The tension of fabric stretched across his chest deflated and the shirt hangs down to revel his collar bone- curved so deeply you could rest a pencil on it and not fear of his falling off.

Richie licks his lips. They feel dry and cracked like those clay face masks and tasting of....what do lips taste like? Dust.  
The tendons in his forearms flex.

Stan’s smile turns flashy, white teeth sparkling, as his hands wrapped around the bench plane tighten. Top of the knuckles turning white. He slowly lifts the plane towards his head. Eyes manic with grief...or hysteria....or hurt...maybe all three and hands shaking.

The bench plane makes a loud clattering noise as Stan plants it on the top of his head, with more force than necessary, and shatters the silence like a plane of glass.  
Richie reels back, but he doesn’t, can't, move- a wave of dizziness hits him hard and his brain feels like it’s been filled with bricks.

He lets out a shocked gasp, huffing at the sudden change, and Stan chuckles.

‘Out of breath! Out of breath! Never ran till he got scared, again! Out of breath! Out of breath!’

Stan forcibly jerks the plane down his head, alone vein pops out of his forehead, and a strip of peach fuzzy covered scalp curls and slides down the side of his face. Blood starts to immediately gather up at the surface of the wound and begins to fill the crevasse. Bright red blood glimmering in the invisible light.

Before the liquid can spill and pool down his face, Stan takes the bench plane and shoves it down his head one, two, three, fours more times. Three of the pieces of scalp fall off, like the first, and curls at his feet, after hitting the ground with a wet, mushy, squish. The fourth, the last, cut got stuck and bounced the plane back into Stan’s palm, hooking the sharp needle at the bottom of it on a hard price of skin or bone.

Stan grunts. His smile still crazed as he yanks the bench plane off of his head. Arm going limp to his side as the plane is carelessly tossed in front of him.  
Richie watches it with emotionless eyes at the bloody tool slides by his feet, head craning to see it disappear into the darkness behind him. Streaks of bright, red blood on the black ground, like bread crumbs, line its path.  
Richie swallows thickly while wringing his shirt between sweaty fingers.

He watches with petrified eyes as Stan grips the edge of the last strip of his scalp, a slight bump on his head, and begins to tear it backward. The sickening sounds of ripping flesh and squirts of blood make Richie’s knees go weak.

‘This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening!’

Stan still smiles as if he’s the most innocent angel on earth, like there are not lines of deep red blood flowing down the sides of his head. He struggles to snap off the end of his scalp, eyes twitching a bit, before an unexpected crack, almost like the sound you make when snapping a mechanical pencil in half, make them both freeze. 

Stan had cut into his skull.

Richie clamped his mouth shut, averting his eyes as the body of his best friend flopped down, dead, at his feet. Top of his head facing Richie. His smell of pine and birdseed fading as an overwhelming push of salt and copper filled his nostrils, clouding his train of thought.  
He prayed, took a deep breath, and looked back at Stan’s dying, dead, body.

Richie brought a hand to his shocked face, staring intensely.  
The wounds looked like that of when you cut the green part off of watermelon, but a bit of white shell underneath it still coats the edges. Pink glistening bright behind a thin layer of fog. Looking nice and sweet. Fruit soft to bite into and with the promise of offering you a good time. Ew.

He decides right then and there to never eat watermelon again.

And then, Richie gets angry...for no reason. His blood runs hot through his veins. Adrenaline forcing his heart to beat faster and faster as his hands clench and relax at the hip dips above his jean-clad thighs.

The spidery red veins in his pure white eyeballs stick out like a neon sign in the dark. Constantly moving side to side, up and down, zig-zag or opposite. Looking through the black for a sign of anything, longing a voice. A face. Something.

He crackles. Manic and crazy, with a foreign drug that fills his stomach with the sharp edge of a chip covered in sea salt and makes his back feel as if he’s twenty-three again.

Miracle.

Richie snaps.

A girl with red, hot hair appears from the endless black, and he pounces. Gripping the soft locks with white knuckles he slams his other fist straight between her eyes. Crossing them, permanently. Richie kicks her feet out from under her and only holds her head by the fistful of locks in his grip.  
He snarls at the way her red lips quiver. A stark contrast from the inflamed swell on her forehead and pale skin gets stuck between a set of pure white teeth.  
He spits at her. Cackling at her disgusted gasp, he bounces her head by pulling the hair up and down, then sends a righteous kick to the heart of her teeth. Toes vibrating, he cringes at the way they shatter beneath his thin leather boot.

The girls struggling ceases, body going limp, possibly from the pain, and eyes close shut.  
Richie wipes his nose with the back of his right hand, leaving a smear of blood behind, and releases the grip on the woman’s hair. He barely flinched at the way her head hits the ground with a thundering crack and chooses to walk away from the body, once the blood gathering beneath her spreads towards his shoes.

He turns away with a sniff, shoves his hands into pockets, and walks in the opposite direction of where the girl came. Blood still smeared at the bottom of his nose smelling like copper and salt.

He chooses not to care.

The silence drags on and, after walking for a few minutes, he decides he’s gone far enough and turns back to face the body.

All that’s left behind is a pool of blood.

...

He’s still angry.

Three-stage lights flash on in front of him. 

‘BIM!’

‘BAM!’

‘BOOM!’

Bathed in yellow light...Ben, Bill, and Mike. 

They’re on their knees, hands tied tightly behind their backs, blindfolded and gagged. They can’t move or speak much, just slight shuffles and a muffled hum from Bill, and their shoulders shake with stress from sitting back on their heels for...however long they’d been like that.

Richie goes to free them when, suddenly, a gun appears in his hand. He watches his arms move, not by his own will, to point the tip of the gun at Mike’s head. The backs of his eyes prickled with unshed tears, counting down to three in his head.

1....2....3- BANG!

Mike Drops dead. 

Bill barely has time to scream out mike's name behind the gag before Richie turns to him and shoots the author in the same place. The body falls like a sack of potatoes, head smacking against the ground with a metallic ‘thud!’. He hears Ben let out a cry, always the most sensitive one, and quickly, unwillingly, shoots him next. Warm liquid splattering against Richie’s face, pants and shirt sleeve.

He watches Ben’s body slump against Bills and drops the steaming gun by his feet. Kicking it into the dark, as Stan had done with the bench plane, and not looking back.

Richie ogled the bodies of his friends with wide eyes. Their blood mingles together like a river mixing with the ocean. Swirling and pushing against one another’s with slow, dripping, movements. Like nail polish on waters surface being crafted into different designs with a toothpick. Ready for whatever white, stainless, surface to dip into it and catch their beautiful artwork on its face forever. 

To be framed and hung up on a wall.

Richie grimaces. 

In the Blink of an eye, they all fade from existence. Cold, dead bodies gone from the floor, and only blood left in their outlines.

Richie gags, bracing the palm of his hand on his knees but doesn’t throw up. He rocks back and forth on his heels, vision dizzy and flashing red when the floor just..gives out on him

Plummeting an unknown distance, his screams stuck in his throat, specks of white fly past him like stars. As if he’s on a rocket ship. 

There’s no wind as he falls. Just deadly silence that makes his ears ring. 

A pressure on his chest grows steadily, his heart slows its frantic beating, and the lights shooting past him start to move so fast that, if he stared at them for too long, they disappear. 

It reminds him of Star Wars. Sprouts memories of watching Han, Luke, Chewy and Leia flying at top speed in their Falcon to escape the terrifying first order, a group that scared the living hell out of him as a kid, or jump blindly into another adventure like the young, dumb adults they were...

And still are.

Richie doesn’t get a warning before he’s hitting the ground, legs first. The sound of a clean snap mixing with mind-numbing pain shooting through his bones and he falls right down on his ass. Head flying back from the sudden force of something pushing back at him and smacking it on the ground. His back arches off of a hard object piercing into his spine.  
He screams silently.

Gasping for breath, shoulders annoyingly scraping against a rough rock under him, he reaches out a weak hand, fully expecting no one to take it, and nearly shits himself when someone seizes it. 

His hands are pinned above his head. A weight settles on the bottom of his stomach, uncomfortably pushing down on his pelvic area as the weight shifts side to side. He holds back a groan as thin legs straddle his hips. Squeezing his thighs together, pinching his balls, and hooking underneath him to keep him from escaping.

A cold, thick, wet liquid drips into his face. 

The black figure above him looms like a statue, unmoving. Richie can’t see its eyes, a distant flash of lighting illuminates behind it, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up anyway.  
There’s a low hiss and more of the thick liquid pools onto his face.

He purses his lip, repulsed, as the unknown- it’s probably blood, he just knows it- substance fills in between the cracks of his chapped lips. A puff of air repels drips of the liquid- blood- into the air but, instead of it flying somewhere else, the drops comes propelling back down onto his face. Splashing on his glasses.

Great.

The figure above him lets out a low, gravely chuckle and Richie freezes...thinking.

Stan. 

Dead.

Bev. 

Dead.

Mike.

Dead.

Bill.

Dead.

Ben.

Dead.

Eddie...?

A flash of lighting strikes behind Richie’s head, loud and electrifying, filling his ears with a loud static...but even with the temporary shock, the blue light that catches the figure above him shines brightly in the corner of Richie’s eyes.

His stomach does a full back flip.

Eddie’s lower jaw is missing....muscle hangs like party streams from what’s left of the top of his jaw. Looking slick and slippery like the insides of a pumpkins guts, but smelling nothing like the seasonal spice everyone has come to rave about.  
His white teeth are stained red. Some loosely hang off from red strings of his shredded gums- ghosts at a Halloween party- and sway through the air dripping the crimson blood.

What shocks him the most, though, is the way his friends tongue- now long and missing chunks of flesh, limply hangs from the hole of his throat. Not twitching, swaying, anything of the sort. 

It just stays there...taste buds glistening with blood as another lighting crashes beside them. 

Like dead body from a rope.

Richie feels his muscles lock in place as Eddie hands wrap tighter around his wrists. Bruising them. 

He narrowly gets a moment to scream before the sensation of Eddie’s rotten, sharp canines are sinking into the side of his neck.

The world flies by in a flash.

He’s in the cave. Pennywise has Mike in its grasp. He doesn’t throw a rock, and Mike is eaten. Quick and simple.

The word shifts and Richie’s now on a side walk. Bill comes strolling down the street on his childhood bike, not paying attention to the the car speeding up behind him before it’s too late.  
Richie stares at the bloody mess of his friend, blinking, and thinks that the driver looked a lot like Patrick Hockstteter.

He blinks again and finds himself at his old school. Ben is being chased by a child version of Beverly. Her fiery red hair being actual fire as is burns away the skin on her face.  
Ben runs towards him. He takes a step to the side as the man grips the door knob behind him and hurriedly forces himself inside the room and locks the door. An audible ‘click’ ringing through the halls.

The monster version of Bev cackles and just slams their head against the wooden door and burns a hole through it to unlatch the lock. 

Richie steps into the middle of the door frame and watches the fiery beast dash towards its victim. Ben backs himself into one of the tables, accidentally turning the faucet with a blue piece of tape wrapped around it on. Emitting a low hissing sound. 

A flash of heat blisters Richie’s face, not bad enough to require a hospital, and Ben is burned alive. 

Richie takes a step back and finds himself in a, moderately, furnished home. There’s sounds of screaming growing closer from the top of the stairs. He looks up to see the back of Beverlys head. Hair aggressively shaking in anger as she screams at a man standing in-front of her.  
Richie sticks his hands in his pockets and stands beside the last step, still looking up.  
He hears Beverly’s voice grow louder, screaming hysterically about something he couldn’t make out, before the man lets out a loud, jumbled, come back and shoves Bev’s shoulders. Sending her flying, head first, down the first flight of stairs. 

Bev’s head cracks open on the second hit, and body only comes to a stop when one of her feet get caught between the black, iron stairwell. She’s face down on the steps, spread out like an eagle, and the man- her husband- says nothing when she doesn’t rise.  
Richie watches with tight fists as the man lazily bounces down the steps, not sparing Beverly a glance- even when he holds himself up on the stair beams to hop over her body- and lumbers straight to the home phone with a blank face.

He picks it up from its place on the table, side eyes the stairs, and dials 9-1-1. 

Richie feels his body ignite with fury when the operator gets on the line, and the mans blank expression quickly turns to one of mock panic and sadness as he blubbers into the phone about how ‘his wife fell down the stairs and now she won’t wake up.’ 

He barely takes two steps, his intention of strangling the man, before the scene changes and he’s standing in the middle of a synagogue, specifically the one he remembers from that awful summer, and turns on his heel.

Its not expected.

The sight of Stan’s body, slumped in one of the sitting rows, with a bullet through his head shocks him a bit, he admits. But it doesn’t strike the amount of fear he felt when one of Stan’s dead eyes snap to look at him, and the edge of his lips turn up into a smirk.

Fucking freaky.

Richie gets knocked on his ass, he’s back in the cave, and just decides to sit this freaky death out. His eyes dropping.

He watches the clown fling it’s long arms, a body attached at the end of his talon goes flying past where Richie sits. The terrified screams of Eddie Kaspbrak growing loud and then soft as he flies by. 

Blood coats his mouth. Richie hardly notices it.

Then, in an instant flash of black to white and back to black, Richie stuck in the endless blackness once more.

He pulls his knees to his chest, a sigh pushing hot air out of his lips, and wipes the tears he didn’t know had been dripping down his prickly cheeks onto his jeans.

His stomach rumbles...but he’s not hungry.

‘ click click ‘

Richie looks up to see an inhaler bounce from the shadows towards him, bumping against his shoe.  
He stares at the name written in black sharpie on the side of it, throat involuntary constricting, with glassy, numb eyes.

His hand twitches, but he doesn’t reach for it.

A familiar cackle passes through the darkness, making Richie’s body shiver.  
His breaths suddenly turn heavy with fear and hands sweat nervously.

A white face sticks out from the endless black. Red lines painted from the middle of its massive forehead to the edges of his lips. It’s buck teeth digging into plump red lips that drop with saliva.

It pounces without warning and tightly digs its sharp finger nails into his shoulder and begins to aggressively shake him, nearly to the point Richie feared his neck would snap in two.

The clown laughs.

‘WaKe uP, RicHie! wAkE uP yOu FilThY boY! ThE fUns jUsT beGinNinG! WaKe Up aNd pLay wItH mE, RicHie! wAke uP aNd pLaY wITh ThE cLowN!’

It opens its mouth, showing multiple sets of rotating teeth, and Richie feels his throat vibrate with a whimper before the feel of teeth graze against his cheek and he’s being sucked up into the air.

Floating for minutes, seconds, and then falling 

d  
o  
w  
n  
.  
.  
.  
.

A soft voice whispers in his ear,

‘ the nightmares over. wake up.’

He doesn’t ignore it.

Richie comes to with a loud gasp, chest heaving.

His eyes snap open to a black room, dark and cold and haunting and scary! 

He jerks himself up from the warm bed he feel asleep in hours earlier, barley taking mind the two pairs of arms he forcibly threw off of his stomach, and blindly dashes to the bathroom. A jumble of voices, from surprised to sleepy, bang against his brain as he stumbles to the toilet and throws himself on his knees. Just in time for his stomach to rumble and the dreading feeling of his dinner rises into his throat.

The bathroom door behind him creaks as a person entering hurriedly flings it all the way open. A loud bang vibrates when the doorknob hits the wall and Richie’s shoulders heave.

He expels the vomit like a broken faucet that’s been tightened. It’s fast and heavy coming out of his mouth, nose and makes the back of his eyes bulge in their sockets. Bony fingers fiercely grip the sides of the toilet lid, like an alcoholic to the throat of his bottle, as the acidic burn of his stomach juices cause his vision to flash white. Eyes water with cold, salty tears.

A hand graces the middle of his back, failing to give him any comfort. It shakes with tremors and the palm barely touches his spine as shortcut fingernails drag down and up against his skin. Tentative, but hard.  
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, the nails burned like fire against his back, there definitely will be marks left.

Richie retches again, he thinks the person behind him gags, and after getting a whiff of the shit that spills out of his mouth...he doesn’t blame them.

He is a Trashmouth, though, after all...it should be expected.

The sounds of feet patting against the tile floor mix with the splash of his vomit hitting the water. A hand grips the one scratching at his back and yanks it away, he only knows this cause it scratches him the entire way before there's a wet towel placed on the back of his neck and another hand, soft and calm, pats at the swollen marks.

Richie’s right leg involuntary kicks underneath him. The movement causes him to bounce, right as he upchucks again, and he catches a bit of vomit going up to his nose as he goes back down.

It just makes him want to throw up more.

Someone brushes the hair sticking to his forehead back behind his ears and ties the rest of his rat nest into a low ponytail with some type of rubber band. Their fingernails are long, and he gives a hard flinch when the hand squeezes his shoulder. Letting out a small, pitiful whimper that makes the loud background noise behind him quiet.

The hand rubbing on his back freezes disappears and then comes back with another wet towel. Cold drops of tab water gliding down the curves of his back.

Richie didn’t notice it then, and probably wouldn’t have through the heavy haze of static popping in his ears and the unpleasant way his stomach acid drips from the insides of his nose, but his skin was on fire. Stinking with sweat and, possibly, blood. Steaming.

His stomach clenches, more vomit rushes through his throat, and the edges of his lips drip with yellow bile. His tongue twitches to go lick at it but the thought of tasting the juices of food he ate yesterday makes him reconsider.

There’s a small break between his upchucking that he lets out the most inhuman noise he’s ever made, it sounded like a groan mixed with an elk’s scream- before his face is back down in the porcelain bowl, and the taste of half-digested chicken coats his tongue, again.

A quiet voice whispers soft nothings into his ear. The hand on his back finches, he couldn’t tell at what, but begins to softly dot the towel on the scratches on his back. Another voice, on his right, commands someone to bring him a glass of water. There’s no confirmation, but the sounds of someone leaving the room give a big hint.

Good...good...

Richie feels his body give one last heave, stomach hollowed of any food he had that day, and spits the residue of bile flavored spit into the toilet. He shudders with soft sobs as the sight of his mushy, wet mess floating in the once clean water. He swallows thickly, gagging at the taste of vomit, and forces himself to flush the toilet.

He watches the puke mess swirl down the bowl with woeful eyes. Sighing, all the strength in his body suddenly leaves him, he falls back into someone’s embrace.

Back arching with the memory of phantom pain.

Strong arms immediately wrap around his chest. Pulling him close with the protectiveness given to a baby deer after its mother abandons them. They shift themselves onto their backside, allowing Richie to lay between their legs, and buries their face into the locks of his greasy, brown hair. Sniffing silently.

Richie’s lips tremble. He starts to cry.

His chest bounces up and down with wet hiccups that make his lungs burn. Tears and snot drip down his scruffy face, hands gripping at his, actually, Bill's plaid pajama pants. 

He tries to hold it all in, silence his loud breathing, but the ache in his chest hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, and it’s stupid. He doesn’t want to cry, no, not in front of all the people he loved. He didn’t need that pity, that embarrassment. He wants to be strong, not weak, for them...not a mess.

Not a liability.

He doesn’t notice anyone talk to him until his sobs damper down.

“ Hey, hey, buddy it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here- we’re all here. You gotta take some deep breaths for me now, Rich, please. You’re exhausted. I don’t want you to get sick.” It’s not the man behind him, he knows to cause his back doesn’t vibrate, and the direction it comes from his right. 

Mike.

Hands rub up and down his shoulders. He tries to take deep breaths, but they always get cut short by a sudden sob or wet hiccup.

Richie feels his cheeks and the tips of his ears heat up with shame. He must look so pitiful, now... Weak and covered in tears and snot. Having to be cradled like a baby to calm down.  
Gross.

How was he ever going to live this down?

A pair of lips kiss the crown of his head. The towel on his shoulders removed to wipe off the excess vomit on his face, as well the inside of his nose. He lets out a sneeze once the towel leaves his vision, and vibration of soft laughter makes his back tingle.  
Someone enters the room with quick, attentive steps-probably the water, and squats down beside the exhausted man in a big blur of white and brown.

He can’t make out the face, his glasses are missing, as the person brings the clear cup of water to his lips. Urging him to take a sip of it with a gentle nudge on his bottom lip.  
Richie whimpers. Turning his head away he tries to bury himself deeper into the strong chest behind him.

The knuckle of a pointer finger softly brushes over his left cheekbone. “ Come on, Rich. Drink some water, please, it’ll make you feel better.” Ben cooed. “Please, take a sip...for me?” He sounds nearly pleading as the glass of water nudged closer to Richie’s face. 

The cold that radiates off the surface of the water makes his nose twitch. He huffs loudly and deeply digs down in himself for the smallest ounce of strength left within him. 

“ nn water.” Richie sniveled.” ‘M nawt...thirstee...” Halfheartedly pushing the glass away from his mouth, Richie scrunched up his nose with pure abhorrence on his face.   
Wrapping his hands around his stomach, Richie circled himself to face, full-body, away from Ben. Resting his head on his holder's shoulder, content but tired. A sigh slips out of his mouth. 

Richie thinks his friend might go to argue with him, to force him to drink the water, as Stan the man holding him hushes someone, tenderly. Ben puffs, a bit sad, as the glass clanks against the bathroom floor as he sets it down.

Rich wants to die right there on the spot. 

His stomach still rolls with nauseating aftershocks. Empty of anything solid and only moving to contract after a sudden flash of pain makes his spine bend.   
He guessed, knew, that the water wouldn’t last a second going down his raw throat before promptly being expelled back into the cup. Spilling over the edges of the glass with backwash and coating the front of his shirt in a wet, smelly mess.

He had already broken down, like a brat when first being denied access to sleep in their parent's bed after a, exceptionally, bad nightmare and the thought of spitting up on himself like a baby did not sound very enjoyable. 

Stan pets his hair, as if he’s a scared puppy, and moves like he’s about to get up.

“Richie,” He whispers into the comedians ear. “ come on, fella...let’s get you in bed. The grounds not such a good place to sleep.” Stan grunts behind him.” And my back is aching...can you stand?”

Richie thought for a moment and curled his face deeper into Stan’s shoulder. He shook his head, shaking.

“ no...”

The curly haired man smiled sadly and patted his friends back.” Okay, bubba, that’s okay.” Richie felt the muscles in Stan’s neck twist against his nose.  
“Mike...can you help me get him up?”

Richie couldn’t see it, but Mike nodded.

Stan, with his arms still wrapped around Richie, folded his legs underneath his body, butt sitting back on his heels, and gave Richie another kiss on the head.

Mike, standing beside the two, smiled tiredly and crouched down beside them. He and Stan locked eyes while the librarian helped lift Richie up from his armpits, Stan supporting Richie’s waist, and passed a secret conversation between themselves.

‘ what do you think happened?’

‘ I don’t know...’

‘ maybe a nightmare?’

‘ probably...this was bound to happen...he never tells us anything..’

‘...’

Ben, awkwardly standing beside the three, coughed. He blushed when Mike and Stan simultaneously turned to look at him and pressed his fist against his lips and gave another cough.

“Do you...do you want me to take him?” Ben gestured to Richie, who’s body sagged pitifully between the two of them, and scratched at his cheek.” It’ll be easier...for me, to do it...just-“ Ben stooped his talking to shake his head.  
Mike and Stan stared at him with sympathy.

“ it’s okay, Ben.” Stan reassured the architect. “You can take him...I think my back gave out after nearly falling of the bed, anyway, it’s killing me..” He chuckled, causing Ben to smile, and then nuzzled his nose into a mess of black, curly hair.

“ Just make sure not go jostle him too much....he’s exhausted.”

Ben gave Stan a hurried nod.”I wouldn’t dream of it...I’ll be very careful.”

Mike’s eyes lit up at the two men. He looked down at Richie, his chubby cheek smushed up against Stan’s chest made him look like a sleeping baby, and tenderly brushed a thumb over the males forehead.

Carefully passing a half asleep Richie into Ben’s arms, the two waited for the man to safely, bridal, carry Richie out the door. 

Stan let Mike exit the bathroom next, stopped in the doorway to examine the bathroom, and switched the light off. The door creaked as he closed it behind him.

Three people were already sat on the bed. Drowning in a mess of crinkled blankets and pillows, Eddie cried silently. Bev and Bill say on either side of him with worried eyes and comforting hands, trying to consult him...but no avail.

“ I hurt him..”

“ It was an accident, Eddie, you didn’t mean too...”

“ He’s gonna hate me..”

“ n-no he’s nuh not.”

“ What if...”

Their quiet conversation fades to nothing as one side of the bed dips beneath them.

Eddie pulls his hands away from red rimed eyes to watch, conflictingly, as Ben eased himself onto the comforter. Throwing a pillow behind himself with one hand and, the other, tightly holding Richie to his chest. Snoring already.

Bev placed a hand on Eddie’s shoulder and Bill stared at his childhood best friend, sadly.

“ Luh look, Eddie...R-Richie’s fine...”

“ His eyes are closed...” Eddie bit at his finger nails, eyes glancing over Richie’s limp body. “ What if he’s dead?”

Bill sighed at Eddie dramatics.” He’s just sleeping.” He reached around Eddie’s tightly coiled knees and Bev’s chest to run a hand through Richie’s greasy hair. Taking pleasure in the simple comfort of his usually boisterous friend finally being calm...for the time being. Richie twitches his nose and brought a loose fist up and settled in on Ben’s chest. A familiar fashion that most babies did when sleeping on their fathers chest.

The author didn’t want to admit it, but the sight was highly adorable. Ben thought so, too, and flashed Bill a happy smile. 

Mike and Stan came over to Ben’s side of the bed, tired eyes smiling at the losers, and forced themselves onto the bed.  
Stan tightly compacted between Mike’s stomach and Ben’s side. The librarians Stan’s were wrapped around his stomach and Ben had entangled one of Stan’s hands with his own and tested it on Ri hues back.

They all three sighed contently in union and didn’t open their eyes for many minutes before soon, from what the others could tell, they all were asleep. 

Bill watched his family- wow, family- with big, puppy eyes, gave Bev a tired smile, and flopped down where he was. Eddie’s legs, having stretched out at some point, laid beneath his stomach. Half his chest laid on Bev’s stomach. His fingers brushing lightly against Richie’s forearm.

He couldn’t tell if it was comfortable, or not, and nodded off to sleep.

Bev smiled down at him, softly pat his hair, and soon followed his lead. Laying back on a pillow behind her back. She leaned her head over onto Ben’s shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

Soon, it was just Eddie who was awake.

Small, scared, lonely Eddie with his big wide eyes and quickly beating heart. 

Eyes frantically scanning the darkness for any hint of a clown...yellow eyes...or chipped teeth. 

He wished, for the millionth time that day, that he was home. In his own bed, own house, with clean sheets and a nice ceiling fan that worked. 

Not in a shitty old townhouse with no A/C, stained sheets and a room that’s shower was missing a bloody curtain....he wanted to be anywhere but here...

Someone shifted, making the sheets crinkle, and let out a soft sigh. 

Eddie turned to his right and squinted through the dark. His heart beating rapidly.

Richie had turned his head to face him- fist still loosely splayed on Ben’s chest, that covered ion his mouth- hair a mess on his head with few strands that fell down above his eyebrows. His lips slightly parted to show the tips of his buck teeth.  
Eyes lashes looking extra long as the twitched above his red flushed cheeks.

Eddie felt his face warm slightly. 

‘ cute! cute! cute! cute!’ He just wanted to pinch the comedians plump cheeks.

Richie looked so innocent...vulnerable. A toddler that couldn’t yet walk on his legs yet without a few trips and needed to be constantly followed by an adult- to keep him from falling onto something sharp. 

Eddie sighed and absently rubbed circles onto Bill’s back with his pointer finger.

He knew he was going to have to tell Richie, eventually, how he felt...Having figured out he used to like the man, after 27 years of being separated, the secret was like a ticking time bomb in his chest.  
Close to exploding.

He NEEDED to tell Richie....just, maybe not now.

Looking around all all the people he loved, none more than the other, Eddie smiled to himself. He settled back down in the covers, a soft exhale out of his nose, and leaned his head on Bev’s shoulder.  
His closest hand intertwining pinkies with Richie’s own.

He smiled, again, to himself and began drifting off to sleep.

Happy images of them all, older, as they are now, playing in the summer sun. Clothes sticking to their bodies from a mix of water and sweat. Drops flying everywhere as they all dashed around like children to tag one another with a dead worm.  
Laughs dancing through the air and filling their bellies with a mess of happy, nervous, knots.

It was the most beautiful dream he ever had, in a while, and....with the way things are now...Eddie suspects that the dream was a prophecy.

Bound to be true...and forever written in stone.

**Author's Note:**

> I have you enjoyed that! It took me forever!!!!! 
> 
> Again, I’m sorry for the bad writing and spelling mistakes! 
> 
> Leave a comment, if you want too! Feed back is very much appreciated! And I hope you have a good one!!


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